


Sofia the Last

by Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, mod content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne/pseuds/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne
Summary: After a night of drunken revelry, Sofia, a failed acolyte of Dibella, failed student of the College of Winterhold, unsuccessful adventurer, and prank-loving partyer, finds herself under arrest in an imperial prison convoy, and gets caught up in some of the the greatest events in the history of the world.Follows the main, civil war, College, and other questlines, and eventually will move far beyond them, with mod content and my own ideas sprinkled all through.





	Sofia the Last

**Author's Note:**

> The character Sofia is based on, but not entirely identical to, the titular follower from the mod Sofia - The Funny, Fully Voiced Follower. Content from other mods such as Wyrmstooth and Apocalypse - Magic of Skyrim will be featured. The universe has been modified for realism in several ways, mostly being made larger so as to feel like the cities are actually cities or the College is large enough to actually be a school. I will also make up or alter actual Elder Scrolls lore as I see fit, though I will try and be clear as I go with how this version of Tamriel works.
> 
> Do note too that though the title of this story is stolen from the Disney show Sophia the First, it has absolutely nothing to do with it, nor shall it intentionally resemble it it any way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Helgen chapter. In broad strokes like Skyrim's opening, but with my own flair to make things moderately interesting.

Sofia was in a cart. The rough jolting of wheels on rocky soil hurt her head through what long experience told her was a mighty hangover. Wishing she weren’t conscious at all for it, she tried to ignore her own uncomfortable existence entirely, but after what was nowhere near long enough the cart hit a particularly offensive bump, forcing Sofia back into the world of the conscious.

“Thank the Divines, you’re awake,” said a man’s voice. “We were beginning to think you never would.”

Sofia opened her eyes at the voice and found herself momentarily blinded by harsh, pale daylight. Looking around, she found herself in a cart somewhere in the mountains. Rocky hills rose sharply beside the road on both sides, topped with dark evergreens. The cart, she saw, was driven by two men in Imperial Legion uniforms. She could see a similar cart in front of this one, and another likewise behind. There were three men in the cart with her, two scruffy-looking nords, one young and blonde and the other older, with brown hair streaked grey, and a brown-haired Bretonish-looking man who seemed vaguely familiar to her.

“I’m… wake…” Sofia managed. Her head was thick with hangover haze and gave her a gentle yet insistent throb with every hoof-clop, making focusing on anything a serious challenge.

“You were trying to cross the border, right? Stole a horse with Lokir over here, and walked right into the Imperial ambush, same as us,” said the man.

Is that what happened? It sounded plausible, at least. Sofia tried to think about what happened last night, but couldn’t quite make out anything more specific than being at a small village tavern, flirting with local men to get free mead. Horse theft was certainly something she’d done before, both sober and drunk.

Looking around again to try and get her bearings, she was alarmed to notice that the nord men were in Stormcloak uniforms. The part about the Imperial ambush began to register then. She was riding in a prison convoy. She noticed too that the older nord was gagged. All the men had their hands bound, and Sofia found hers in ties as well. _Prison it is. Damn._

“No thanks to you,” said the Breton. “You stopped us when we ran into you and accused us of being spies. If it weren’t for that, we all would have walked away free.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the nord. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now.” 

The Breton didn’t respond.

Sofia’s head swam with questions, and not a small measure of fear besides. She’d slipped arrests and prisons many times before all over Skyrim, but never from the high security of Imperial fortress prisons. She could easily untie herself in a pinch, since Imperial soldiers and guards were taught standardised knots an old friend had once taught her to slip, but she’d probably have to plan her escape more carefully than normal.

And that still left what she’d been doing last night. Why had she been making for Cyrodiil? She’d never tried to leave Skyrim before. She was dressed, she saw, in a now-ruined gown which still managed to cover everything, and her long, dark hair was loose and messy. “Hey,” she said to the Breton, “Floki, right?”

“Lokir,” he replied, visibly annoyed.

“Lokir, okay. So, what happened?”

“You don’t remember?” he said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh. Well. Let me fill you in then, miss innocent princess. First, you got everyone in the inn drunk. I’ve lived in Stony Brook for fifteen years, and I never seen the so full. At one point, you got on a table and pulled down your dress while singing a song so bawdy it’d make a sailor blush.”

Sofia didn’t remember that at all, but did very clearly remember having done exactly the same thing on many other occasions, so she knew he was probably telling the truth.

“Then,” Lokir continued, “you started pulling other women up with you, and exposing them as well. You got kicked out for corrupting the priest’s daughter, I think it was, or maybe it was the innkeep’s. Doesn’t matter. Me and some other men followed you out. For some reason, you showed interest in me, and eventually the other men went back inside. We drank together on the bridge for an hour, maybe two, singing songs and telling stories, until you pushed me into swiping an expensive bottle of brandy from the inn and running off on a horse you stole from the inn’s stables.”

Though it still didn’t jog her memory, that story was familiar to Sofia in nearly every detail. He’d probably omitted the part where she’d slept with him before going back to the inn, since that was generally what she did when drunk, but that omission was understandable given company.

“When we got out of town with no direction, just kept running. Then we ran into this bunch.” With that, Lokir kicked the older nord in the shins.

“Hey! Watch yourself!” shouted the younger nord. “That man in Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Sofia’s blood went suddenly cold. That man was _Ulfric Stormcloak?_ Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel, the murderer, the hero of so many. If he was captured, though…

Judging by his looks, Lokir was having the same moment of shock. “But that means… Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know,” said the nord. “But wherever we’re going, Sovngarde awaits.”

A kind of animal panic set into Lokir, a panic Sofia had seen before. “No no no, this can’t be happening, this can’t be…” he said again and again under his breath. He eventually stopped repeating himself and simply sat there, shivering.

The ride continued in awful silence for some while before the nord broke the silence again. “Where are you from, horse-thieves?”

“Why do you care?” Lokir snapped.

Sofia knew why. “Because a Nord’s last thoughts should be of home,” she said, quietly.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a nord,” he said sharply. After a few moments, he softened. “Rorikstead. I’m… I’m from Rorikstead.”

“Riverwood,” said the blonde nord.

“Markarth,” Sofia spoke softly. She’d thought of the home of her childhood often in her years of adventure, but knew well enough that the City of Stone was not for her. The priestesses of Dibella who’d raised her would say she gave the goddess a bad name, and in truth, she did. She wasn’t proud of where her life had gone, but didn’t regret it, either. She’d managed to send a few letters over the years to Sister Marin, the woman who had raised her as a mother might, to tell her about the world at large, but had never stayed in one place long enough to get a response. Sofia had faced death more than once in the last few years, but always from exposure or from injuries in fights she’d picked. She’d never imagined that she’d be executed, especially as a mistaken prisoner of war. Such is life, though. Six long years of adventuring across Skyrim had impressed that upon her in a way no philosopher’s wisdom might.

When the cart turned around a sharp corner in the road, a fortress gatehouse came into view among the trees. Imperial legion archers guarded it from above, and more soldiers were visible through the open gate. As they approached, an older man in officer’s armour appeared in the gatehouse to watch them pass through. One of the soldiers driving the cart shouted up to him. “General Tullius!”

“Captain Hadvar!” replied the General. “The headsman is waiting. Let’s get this over with.”

So it was to be a beheading, then. Faster than a hanging, by all accounts, and far preferable to many other, crueler methods of execution.

“General Tullius, the military governor,” said the nord with a visceral sneer. “Oh, and look at that, the Thalmor are with him.” Sure enough, Sofia saw a robed high elf standing not far from the general, watching patiently. The nord seemed about to speak again, but then started looking around, as if the fortress were familiar to him. Sofia followed suit, and saw why. “I know this place,” he said. “This is-”

“Helgen,” she said, cutting him off. Not a fortress at all, but a walled town, one the crossroads of the southern mountains. It was not a large place, but it had always been a welcoming respite for the road-weary.

“I used to be sweet on a girl from here,” said the man.

“I was too, oddly enough.”

The nord smiled. “I remember… Velod, he used to make this mead with juniper berries mixed in…”

“He does. That’s how I met his daughter, that mead,” Sofia said.

“Little Ayla?” he asked. “She was so small, last time I saw her… I always knew she would grow into a great beauty.”

Sofia simply smiled at that.

The man looked up into the air, taking in town. “It’s funny, you know? The Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

Sofia again didn’t reply, for the main courtyard had come into view. The general who had greeted them was present, along with his Thalmor shadow, as were a priest, a robed executioner wielding a sword taller than he was, and a small crowd of other soldiers and civilians. A board with a round cut sat in front of a basket.

The cart came to a stop in the yard, along with some three other carts packed with Stormcloak men. The two drivers from her own cart got down and walked around to the back.

“Get up! Out of the cart!” shouted one of them, an imperial woman. She was short, even as Imperials went, and had narrow, cruel eyes and a small mouth visible beneath her helmet.

Ulfric Stormcloak rose with dignity and grace and jumped smoothly down to the ground, making Lokir’s shaking stumble even more pathetic-looking. The nord man, whose name Sofia now realised she’d never even asked, rose with dignity yet resignation, his shoulders lacking the proud squaring Jarl Ulfric held his with. Sofia rose last, moving slowly, hardly aware of the way her own legs moved.

“Now, step forward when I say your name,” said the man, whose name Sofia remembered was Hadvar. He was a classic nord, tall and muscled with long brown hair and a facial bones you could cut yourself on. He withdrew a scroll from a leather bag, and started reading off names. “Ulfric, of House Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” he said. The Jarl sauntered forward, taking the place indicated by another officer near the block.

“Ralof, of Riverwood.” Hadvar seemed to wince slightly at the name. 

The once-nameless nord, Ralof, took his place by his king, chin held high.

“Lokir, of Rorikstead.”

Lokir took two steps forward before panicking. “No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He bolted, knocking over the Imperial woman on his way.

“Archers!” she shouted, getting back up from the ground. In the blink of an eye, a half-dozen arrows sprouted from Lokir, who’d managed to run no more than a hundred feet in his escape. Several protruded from his gut; his would be a painful death, Sofia knew. _Coward,_ she thought. _He was right, though. He was not a nord. Perhaps it’s for the best I don’t remember meeting him._

“Sofia, of Markarth,” said Hadvar.

Though suddenly weak-kneed at the sound of her name, she managed to hold her head high as she took her place next to Ralof.

This went on for what felt like hours. Many more names were called, but Sofia wasn’t paying any attention. She was fixated on the chopping board, taking in its every fine detail, from the smooth, fresh-cut quality of the wood to the little knot on the bottom corner. They’d made it just for the occasion, it seemed. Nothing but the best for Jarls, she supposed.

Reality was quite jarring when it snuck up on her. “First prisoner, to the block!” shouted the Imperial woman, pointing to the Stormcloak man standing next to Sofia, a handsome young man with brown hair and an angular, shapely face.

He strode to the block, swaggering across the yard like he owned the place. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial,” he said as he knelt, “can you say the same?”

Clearly this annoyed the captain, who shoved him over onto the block with a foot. As the priest recited a prayer nobody heard, the executioner came forward, and with silent, fluid motion, brought his greatsword up and then down. It passed cleanly through the Stormcloak’s neck, severing his head with barely a sound, but clanging loudly when it hit a rock in the dirt of the yard. _That can’t be good for the blade,_ Sofia thought instinctively, her thoughts moulded by years of maintaining weapons or having to replace those she’d neglected. It was hard to imagine a less appropriate thought to have at that particular moment, and Sofia took a second, for some reason, to curse herself for it.

“Next, the horse-thief!” shouted the captain, pointing squarely at Sofia as the first man’s body was dragged to the side.

Before she could move, there came a distant sound. It was hard to say what it was; it had the quality of a knife cutting through hard ice, or perhaps the growl of a mountain sabre-cat, but the chill it instilled and sent travelling up the spine was similar to the deep, elemental terror of a wolf’s howl, and there was something in it that reminded Sofia vaguely of the dusty, ancient voice of a draugr. It came from everywhere, from nowhere, from above from below, from all sides and almost from within. There were several shouts of confusion, and Sofia smelled the distinctive odour of someone wetting themselves.

The captain was unimpressed and arrow-focused, hardly stopping to notice the sound. “I said, _NEXT PRISONER!_ ”

Sofia walked slowly to the block, counting her last footsteps. _One, two, three, four, five…_ she knelt down gingerly, feeling the wetness of the dirt on her knees through her woolen dress. She lay her head down on the block, the last man’s blood slick against her skin. As the headsman slowly went through his motions, Sofia closed her eyes. _A nord’s last thoughts should be of home._ And hers were. She thought of the stony streets of Markarth, of the soft beds in the Temple of Dibella, of her fellow acolytes and her friends, of Sister Marin, of sweetrolls and early autumn snows….

And just as she could almost feel the sword severing her neck, the noise came again. But it was louder this time, like a giant screaming in one’s ear. The piercing, howling shriek seemed shake the very earth. Screams of human terror rang through the air, as did what sounded rather alarmingly like sails. Sofia’s eyes shot open just in time to see a great black dragon, for it could be nothing else, land on the watchtower above her. Its landing shook the ground like an avalanche. Glowing blue eyes the size of human heads surveyed the scene with hunger.

The dragon roared again then, releasing a blast of fire over Sofia’s head. It gave yet another roar as its fire quickly engulfed the town. There was something strange about that roar, Sofia’s mind registered, something more like a voice than the call of a wild animal. There was almost the suggestion of… words?

The dragon must have seen something interesting elsewhere, then, for with a single, forceful beat of its great wings it lifted itself into the air and disappeared from Sofia’s immediate view. She herself wasn’t aware of much of anything until someone grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her up. Breaking out of her daze, she saw Ralof standing behind her. “You like being alive, horse-thief? Come with me if you want to stay that way.”

Now aware of herself, Sofia didn’t need to be told twice. When Ralof turned and made for a nearby tower, she was nearly tripping over his feet. Once inside, she collapsed against one of the walls, breathing hard, trying to wear away at her shock. There was a _dragon_ in the skies above her, burning everything in sight. It had saved her from death, only to plunge her into peril.

And her hands were still bound. Noticing that, she worked at them for a few seconds, running through the familiar motions, and eventually managed to work the bindings loose. She thought about healing her wrists, but they weren’t much more than sore, and Sofia knew well enough she may have more dire need of her magicka soon enough, and had nothing to help with regenerating it.

Calmer thoughts working their ways in then, she became aware of people talking in the room around her. One was Ralof; he was standing by the entrance, keeping watch. The other, she saw, was Jarl Ulfric. “A dragon, in Skyrim,” he said.

“I thought they were a legend,” Ralof said. “They seemed so… unreal.”  

“I’ve always been told they were dead.”

“Then where did this one come from?” Sofia asked, jumping in.

“I don’t know,” said Ulfric. “It looked to have come down from the mountains, but it could have come from anywhere. Maybe it back from the dead.”

“Zombie dragons. Just what we all need, what with your war already fucking things up for everyone.”

Ulfric looked like he was going to reply in anger, but Ralof interrupted him. “I don’t see it out here. I’m going up to see if I can get a closer look.”

The Jarl tried to stop him as he ran past. “That’s not a good idea, Ral-”

But it was too late: he was already halfway up the stairs when the wall in front of him exploded. Ralof fell back down the stairs, and didn’t move to get back up. Dead or no, he wasn’t going anywhere, and Sofia knew it was probably time to leave.

She didn’t bother saying anything to the Jarl before she left. Outside, she found the town awash in flame and smoke. There were corpses littered all around of people and horses, and some bodies that had yet to make it that far and still could be seen to breathe or twitch. Sofia had seen more than a few decently-sized battles in her time, but this was something different, almost more like divine wrath. Nobody and nothing was spared the touch of dragonfire.

Sofia made her way down the main street of the town, trying to find the gate she’d entered Helgen from, but through the smoke and wreckage she wasn’t even certain she was actually on a street at all half the time. She passed a couple groups of Imperial soldiers shooting arrows and firebolts at the dragon, mostly to no apparent effect. Screams and shouts from every direction seemed to weigh like a blanket across the town. As she wound her way through the burning ruins, she did manage to get her hand on a sword that was reasonably undamaged from an Imperial soldier in far worse condition than his weapon.

Finally, almost miraculously, she managed to find the gate, and found it still open. Taking in, and then regretting taking in, a deep breath of smoky air, she made to run for the opening, but before she could, the dragon dropped directly down atop the gatehouse, roaring its deafening roar and throwing a fireball over her head. When it took off, its tail dragged across the gatehouse, tearing it down and creating a rubble pile where freedom had once beckoned. Sofia’s heart raced as it sank, and her knees began to wobble.  

“Prisoner!” someone shouted to her. She turned looking for the source, until she found a group of Imperial soldiers. The one at the front was familiar- Hadvar, was it? He beckoned to her again. Sofia didn’t need to be told a third time, and ran flat out down the hilly street towards him, and followed wordlessly as he made his way into Helgen’s main keep, which outwardly seemed intact.

Hadvar had taken her and his men into what appeared to be barracks. There were rows of simple beds not separated by any visual obstructions, with chests at the foot of each. There were what looked like weapon racks on the walls. A few of the beds were taken up by men and women already rescued, Imperial soldiers to a one. Sofia was only mildly surprised to see General Tullius among them. Because of course he would be. _What a strange day._

“You, prisoner,” said Hadvar, breathing heavily like the rest of his men. “What was your name?”

“Sofia. Hadvar, right?”

“Yes. Now, Sofia, if you plan to get out of here alive, you’ll want to get some armour from those chests. There should be some left over.”

“You’re not going to try and imprison me, are you?”

“It’s pretty clear to me you aren’t a Stormcloak, and that you didn’t belong there. Captain Andia, however, doesn’t - didn’t - do anything by half-measures. So, no. I think you’ve got a pass on prison or execution.”

Sofia nodded at him before peeling off to find some leftover armour. The chests had enough odds and ends that it didn’t take her long to find enough to make a decent suit, and she even managed to find a better sword, along with a bow and full quiver. Tullius paid her no mind all the while, as if she didn’t exist. She may as well not have. He and Hadvar talked in quiet tones to each other while Hadvar’s men went about doing the same, replacing bits of damaged armour and weapons. When Sofia ditched her old clothes even down to the underthings, none the soldiers in the room, to their professional credit, spared a moment to stare or blush, though Sofia wouldn’t have minded if they had.

Up close, Tullius could not have looked more like Sofia had always imagined Imperial generals to look: trim, snowy white hair, a clean shave, good muscles for his age, and that certain hardness of gaze the old warriors Sofia had known always seemed to have. His stocky Imperial build contrasted sharply with nearly everyone else in the room,

Every now and again as they worked, they heard the dragon’s muffled roars outside, but the sheer terror of the _real fucking dragon_ was beginning to fade, and a sense of purpose was returning to lift the mood slightly.

Hadvar eventually peeled off from the general to check up on the room’s men and ensure they were all properly equipped. He reported back to Tullius when done. The general then stood up. “Men,” he said, “I hate speeches. So, I’ll keep this short. Follow me, and I’ll lead you to safety. Remember your training, and keep your heads. Now, MOVE OUT!”

The soldiers gathered - Sofia counted some twenty three of them, not including herself and the two officers - all saluted in unison before filing out into the hallways of the hallways of the keep. Tullius directed them through endless many identical passages, down several staircases, and eventually through to a network of caves. After what felt like hours, and may very well have been, Tullius found a door hidden by a wall of hanging moss, and opened it to reveal daylight.

 _Fresh air has never tasted sweeter,_ Sofia thought. The doorway faced northwards, and the trail that connected to it likely led down to the River Road. The River Road led to the White Plains, where just about every road in the whole province of Skyrim passed through Whiterun.

While Sofia gathered her thoughts, weighing her options, the gruff voice of General Tullius interrupted her. “Prisoner, or whatever your name is-”

“Sofia.”

“Sofia, yes… I trust you know you can’t follow us any further than the main road. I have to maintain secrecy of movement, and you aren’t a part of the legion. I will let you keep the armour and weapons requisitioned for you, as I would not have you stumbling naked and unarmed through the wilds of Skyrim, but you must leave, as soon as the path is open.”

Though stumbling naked and unarmed through Skyrim’s wilds while also quite drunk was almost a pastime for Sofia, she didn’t need to tell the general that. “Thank you,” she said, consciously omitting his ‘sir.’ He glared at her briefly, but decided that wasn’t worth his energy to pursue, and turned away. Almost as an afterthought, he paused, and asked, “You don’t know for certain what happened to Ulfric Stormcloak, do you?”

“I saw him after the dragon showed up, and I didn’t watch him die. He might be alive, he might not.”

Tullius considered that for a moment, then turned walked away for good.

Before Sofia could leave, Hadvar approached her. “Riverwood isn’t far to the north, if you need a bed. If you hurry, you might make it before dark. If you need a bed, tell my Aunt Delphine at the Sleeping Giant Inn that I sent you. She’ll let you stay a night for cheap if you tell her I made it out of Helgen alive.”

“Thank you, Hadvar,” Sofia said, though she knew well that his kindness was just so that she could deliver a message, but the generosity was still better than her usual lot. “I’ll make sure to tell her. Wait- you’re from Riverwood?”

“No, I grew up in Whiterun, but my father and his brothers all are. Delphine is my Uncle Torbard’s wife.”

“Ralof was from Riverwood.”

Hadvar cast his eyes down. “I know. I knew him, when I was young. I wish he hadn’t turned on the Empire.”

Sofia nodded in sympathy. “Shit luck, I guess.”

“Shit luck,” he agreed.

“Captain Hadvar!” Tullius shouted. He and the other men were forming up along the trail.

“Thank you, and good luck,” Hadvar said, peeling away to rejoin his men.

“You too,” Sofia replied. 

_What a strange day._

 

 

 


End file.
